


Three times the Winchesters were most definitely not equine, no way.

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Animal Transformation, Crack Fic, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-28
Updated: 2007-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53569.html</p></blockquote>





	Three times the Winchesters were most definitely not equine, no way.

*

_1\. Trusty Steed_

John’s halfway through doing a sweep of the abandoned house when he realises that maybe it wasn’t the best idea in the world to bring the boys with him. The realization comes at about the same time things start appearing and disappearing at random around him, the house morphing and twisting back rapidly.

Not that he knew _that_ was going to happen before he brought them. For all intents and purposes this is just a quick job, a stop-off on his way to the local library, researching the (albeit short) history of this house that’d seen a lot of action in the past couple of months; reports of strange lights and sightings before the resident had just quick up and left.

Hell, it isn’t even _night_ time, just an ordinary house, hastily abandoned with pieces of crippled furniture and odds and ends scattered about.

“Dean!” John calls as the wall ahead of him changes into a waterfall and then back again, quick like _snap_, and he spins about-face and startles when he comes nose-to-nose with a giant plush bear which disappears a moment later. He’d put Sammy down in the front room, instructed Dean to watch him as John quickly swept the rest of the house, but now he was struggling to get back to them, every step halted by another apparition - or, not apparition; they’re _real_, if transient.

An over-sized donut with a thick fluff of sugar dusting.

The walls living, heaving leather.

The rear end of a huge bovine blocking the hall.

Floor flooded with vein-blue-tinged milk.

As he gets closer to his destination, he realises their appearances and disappearances aren’t random, but rather dictated by a tinny-crashed, rapid rhythm coming from the room he left the boys in.

_-crash-_ A rabbit standing on its hind legs _-crash-_ a cascade of oil-slick-coloured marbles _-crash-_ the floor unstable like John’s walking across a giant pillow _-crash-_

He sees what it is when he finally - _finally_ \- gets to the doorway; Sammy’s sitting at the center of the room, legs stretched out in front of him, clutching a brass blur between his chubby fists and drumming it against the floor between his knees over and over. Dean’s hopping in a circle around him, keeping time as Sammy shrieks in delight, apparitions flickering brightly-coloured around them both and John is speechless only as long as it takes to see Dean manifest a monkey tail before he bellows, “_Boys!_“

Sam drops the lamp with a clatter and the last echoes of it are enough for the tail to disappear, thank god. Dean stops mid-hop and looks over his shoulder sheepishly. John grits his teeth, strides over the last few steps to them.

“Da!” Sammy says, sticking his hands in the air, fingers wriggling demandingly, the need for John to pick him up right _now_ apparently diverting his attention away from the… goddammit, the _lamp_ he’d been playing with.

And if just shaking it around did that much… He reaches down, grips Sammy’s chest, swings him up to rest on John’s hip. John side-steps the lamp deliberately. “Dean,” he says, and Dean’s quiet and head-dipped beside him, close enough for his shoulder to brush John’s thigh.

The floor of the house tips like a ship in a storm when he tries to walk across it; there’s the low rattle-clatter of a handful-or-so of gum balls rolling back and forth in the far corners, but finally they make it out to the front door, onto the porch.

Looks like he’d be needing a sitter after all. No way he was bringing the boys back here. “Dean,” he says. “Take my hand.” He holds out his free hand as Sammy kicks and wriggles in the other, buzzing spittle against the collar of John’s shirt.

They step off the porch together and then stop as one.

The car isn’t where John parked it in the drive.

Instead, there’s a sleek black horse, a goddamn _giant_ horse. It nods its head a little when it catches sight of them in one of its eight-ball eyes, scuffing one of its hubcap-hooves, but otherwise looks mildly bored. Its muzzle is just about bigger than Sam’s entire body, and John clutches at him instinctually.

“Horsie!” Sammy crows, doing his very best to buck out of John’s grip.

Dean’s tugging on John’s hand, his small body almost at a 45 degree angle as he strains against John’s statue impression to get closer to the horse. John allows himself to be dragged, still keeping Sammy angled as far away from the tank-flanked whip-tailed crush-footed thing as possible.

It mouths at Dean’s hand then tugs at the shoulder of Dean’s shirt with its lips. Dean giggles. Sammy’s toes poke a rapid staccatto into John’s belly.

The horse’s muzzle is suede-soft against John’s knuckles, the coat over its shoulders gleaming like boot polish. It huffs thunderously against the palm of John’s hand, looking not much less bored than it had previously. Impassive. Like the cavorting and shrieking small child around it is no more than a buzzing fly.

“Dad!” Dean’s holding his arms in the air now, reaching toward the horse’s back.

Oh no. No _way_. “I don’t think so.”

“Da-_ad!_” Dean’s voice has an edge of petulance to it that it doesn’t carry all that frequently lately, and it makes John’s mouth twist half in easily-manipulated guilt, half irritation.

Jesus. John wipes a hand over his face, then rearranges Sammy against his shoulder, firm grip across his back. Sam’s hair tickles his jaw as Sam twists his head, struggles to keep watching. John leans down, holding his hand out low for Dean to put his foot in. They have to get back to the motel somehow, after all.

*

_2\. The Colt_

“Johnny,” Bobby says as soon as John answers the call, without so much as a _Hey_ or _How you doing?_ “You got to get here. You got to see this.”

John’s breath sticks solid in his throat, clicks when he swallows. “Is it the boys? Are they–?”

“Just…” Bobby laughs a little breathlessly, the shaky tone of it apparent even through the crackly connection. “They’re okay. Just get here as quick as you can, OK?”

“I’m five hours away,” John says.

“Good.” And the connection clicks closed.

*

It’d been dawn when Bobby called; it’s pushing toward lunch time when John rolls into the junk yard. No one comes out of the house, and he cruises around it to the high timber fence at the back, stops in front of the gate. The car rumbles idly for a few moments, but there’s no sign of life anywhere so he tucks a pistol into the back of his belt before climbing out of the car, opening the gate himself, driving through and closing it behind him.

Horses crowd the fenced pens that border the dusty path toward the stables, and John combs his gaze anxiously through them, but to no avail. He picks up his pace, fists flexing automatically as he sees the broad barn-style door swinging open on the side of the stables ahead. Bobby steps out; catching sight of him and hurrying forward straight away.

His long hair’s greasy, kinked mid-way down where the edge of his hat usually rests. He’s wearing an undershirt and his jeans slouch low and beltless. It’s almost afternoon but he looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.

“What the hell is going on?” John demands, and Bobby shakes his head, eyes wide.

“It’s them, John,” he says. “I swear it, even if he didn’t… if Dean didn’t _look_ so much… Lula saw it. Was shovelling out the stables this morning, saw the whole goddamn thing.”

John’s frown deepens even as the throb of his heart speeds. Bobby’s daughter is nowhere in sight; and that’s a sign something was wrong more than anything. She’d taken to the boys since John’d brought them here near sixteen years ago, now, sure as the sun would rise Lula’d run out to meet him as he drove in, not changing even as she battered her way into womanhood.

“She’s fuckin’ terrified, Johnny,” Bobby says, tilting his head in as if confiding something dire, voice low. “It’s messed her up.”

“You’re an asshole,” John grits, losing patience. He starts striding toward the stables, Bobby runs alongside. “Where the hell are my boys?”

It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside; the plexi sky lights in the high roof cast fuzzy-edged beams of light, caught by the motes of hay, soft gold. There aren’t the usual sounds of hoof-stomping, hay-rustling and snorting he’s used to hearing in here, all the stalls leading up to the double-size one at the end are empty. John’s belly twists as he approaches, gait slowing, tongue sticking to the roof of his suddenly-dry mouth as he swallows.

Usually they’d stick their heads out over the door of the stall as he approached; they’d jerk their heads and nuzzle at his pockets as he ran his hands over their sleek, warm flanks. This time he has to walk right up to the door before he sees them.

It’s not them. It’s not. They…

There are two men in the stall, naked skin gold in the light but pale against the hay. One lying in it, half-curled; the other standing, leaning against the rough-hewn wood of the back wall.

John’s faintly aware of Bobby’s presence still hovering somewhere behind him, wisely silent as John grips the top edge of the door with shaking hands.

“Dean,” John says - croaks, more like - the man standing against the wall shifts, wobbling a little on his feet, lifting one foot and stamping it back down. His jaw’s clenched firm, hair half-falling over his forehead and tops of his ears. The shape of his face is solid, masculine; but his mouth is full and delicate, nose almost aristocratic. John can’t breathe all of a sudden because it is, it _is_ him, it’s _Dean_. “Dean,” John says again, rough wood painful in his fierce grip. And the other, limbs folded in the hay, face half-tilted up and eyes glimpsed white through the longer hair. “_Sammy._“

John’s reaching a hand out before he’s even thought about it and Dean straightens, leaning away from the wall, standing on his own. His chin tilts up and eyes widen, white all around the iris. His shoulders are broad, powerful; his flank - _thigh_, hip and thigh - just as muscled, sleek line bunched hard and tense.

He’d not let Bobby - or Lula, for that matter - break them in. Not that, never that; he’d rather set them wild and never see them again before bearing the thought of some cowboy saddling them up, shove a bit in their mouths. He’s wondering if he’d made a mistake by being so stubborn about it, now. They trusted Lula, she’d practically grown up with them, tolerated _him_ if he had something for them to eat. He had tried not to think too much about whether they _knew_ him, remembered him. But now, jesus, if they were a little more _tame–_

His hand’s shaking. Dean’s facing him head-on, now, mouth twitching and eyes still wide. Green. Dean’s eyes are green, lashes as ridiculous as they’d been since he was a baby, brows expressive in their distrust. “Dean,” John says again. “It’s me. It’s Dad.” He pauses. “It’s Daddy.”

Bobby clears his throat; John doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look away. “I’ll just… I’ll leave you. Be just outside, holler if you…” John gives a short nod, not breaking eye contact with Dean.

The stable door creaks, latching loudly, and Dean huffs heavily. John swallows again.

“Daddy?” The word is slurred, voice soft and rough-edged but the tone deep. John’s gaze shifts from Dean to Sam, _Sammy_, he’s stirring, pushing himself upright, looking at John.

“Sammy,” John says, chokes it out as he feels his eyes heating, vision blurring.

Sam struggles to his feet and jesus, he’s _huge_, just as broad-shouldered and deep-chested, narrow hips and wavering on his ankles before he widens his stance, settles his balance. Taller than Dean, and John only realises he’s smiling when a tear burns along a deep crease leading from the corner of his eye. His face aches, chest aches. Six-year-old Sammy held precious in his memory replaced immediately, gloriously, by this. _Baby boy._

Dean steps forward; haltingly at first, but rapidly gaining steadiness, positioning himself between John and Sam, chin still jutting.

“Hey, buddy,” John says softly, slowly-slowly turning his hand around; palm-up and fingers curled a little. Sammy shifts his weight, shoulder jostling Dean’s and then Dean _whuffs_ again and leans forward and presses nose and mouth into John’s palm. John doesn’t move, keeping his joints loose as Dean tilts his head a little, and John can feel the dry brush of Dean’s lips, heat of his breath, prickle of stubble on Dean’s cheek against his fingertips. Dean breathes in, out heavily, straightens. He leans, and the muscles along he and Sammy’s shoulders tense as they rest weight against each other.

“Dad,” Dean rasps.

*

Getting them into clothes is the hardest thing, harder than getting them up and mobile again. The awkwardness of their limbs seems momentary before they pick up an easy, liquid coordination, a grace that holds when they’re still as much as when they’re moving. It’s a couple of days before John can convince them to come inside the house, let alone the car. John doesn’t see Lula, even when he’s got the boys dressed - into pairs of his jeans and undershirts that seem to be one of the few tolerable items, any kind of sleeve completely and immediately rejected.

_Boardin’_ Lula had always called their arrangement, even when John called it _agistment_ in bitter tones. Figures she was young enough when John brought them in that all she remembers is a pair of leggy colts, uneasy on their spindly, knobbly legs, snuffling at her little-girl hands for treats.

“You do anything?” Bobby asks him the morning after he gets there, when he finally comes back out of the stables. “Because I sure as hell didn’t.”

“No,” John answers, the surge of guilt accompanying it old and familiar. _Be careful what you wish for._ It’d been a long time since he’d actively sought out a way to turn them back. “Not deliberately, anyway. I think maybe… I think maybe finding the real Colt broke the spell, somehow.”

Bobby nods slowly. “Makes sense,” he says. “As much sense as it can, anyway.”

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/angstslashhope/pic/0019f0za/)The boys don’t talk much, not at all to each other and only in halting, child-like, short sentences to John. He watches from the porch steps as Sam wriggles his toes in the bristly grass of the patchy lawn and grins; Dean steps forward into him, leaning and tilting to gnaw a little at Sammy’s left shoulder as Sam does the same to Dean’s.

John snorts, shakes his head. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck, briefly over his face.

“They’ll get over it,” Bobby says, laughter clear in his tone, joyful. “Thought you missed out on the fun of teaching a boy how to groom himself, huh?” He slaps John’s back, the boys turning to watch them impassively at the sudden, sharp sound.

John feels a surge of pride. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says.

*

_3\. Dad’s an ass._

To say he was surprised would be a mild over-exaggeration. Raising two boys who were adventurous at best and danger-magnets at worst (honestly, just _what_ had been the attraction of Dean to electrical sockets at age five?) had pretty much killed his ability to be shocked. Figuratively and literally speaking.

But surprise, yeah. Mild surprise.

John had never believed in God. Not that he was a hardcore atheist or anything like that. He’d been raised without much religion himself, and though he’d had no objections to Mary putting thoughts of angels and sunbeams in Dean’s head, John’d never taken active part in it.

And then it was a moot point, really. _Hell_ he’d seen evidence enough of, but Heaven? He’d be a fool before he trusted or even hoped for some force from on-high to take care of him and his own. And as for what happened _after_, well, he didn’t care to think too long on that. It was more about where you were than where you were going. Demons, they were from Hell, and that’s where they were staying. If there were any kind of angels, at least they were sure as shit sticking to John’s rules, with neither hide nor hair of them seen outside of Heaven. And John’d go fighting tooth and nail before _anything_ took him and his own from the world they were in.

Well, that’s what he’d always intended, anyway.

As it is, going out is much like coming back in again. Just like it, in fact.

A slippery tumble of his overlong limbs into prickly sensation; the sudden cease of pressure; and cold, cold air against his wet skin. He shivers uncontrollably, struggles to gain control of his legs, arms; push himself upright. Fails miserably. A giant, fuzzy muzzle descends from above; a rough, warm tongue extends from it to lick the slime of wet off his skin.

Or rather, his hide.

Heaven and Hell definitely moot point, at this juncture. Looks like John’s going to be sticking around in _this _world for a while.

*

It’s not like he’s a man stuck in a horse’s body. He doesn’t miss his old body at all, really, doesn’t feel trapped; memories and personality in tact but the physical instinct matching the new body. It _fits_, his limbs stretching long to fly over the land, ears twisting to hear or warn, mane-tossing.

Figures, he’s not wild. On a ranch somewhere in the Midwest, far as he can tell. At first he tries to communicate with the other horses; it takes a little while to get over the sudden strike of sheepishness (so to speak) when he’s forced via this new viewpoint to consider that each of the beasts around him - and each one he’d ever petted, ridden or inadvertantly ploughed down with the car in his previous life - could have harboured human souls, consciousness. However, beyond whatever new understanding he has of horse body language, there’s no flicker of desperate understanding or even recognition of a kindred spirit in any of his equine peers.

A few of the cultures and belief systems he’d researched over the years had encapsulated theories of reincarnation; mostly with the general gist of ‘graduating’ to higher forms of being with each incarnation - if you were on the right track, that is. Finding himself a previously-human soul alone amongst a bunch of animals isn’t the most reassuring realisation for the progress of John’s own soul through the ranks.

But when it comes down to it, he’d probably faced more moral dilemmas in his lifetime than the average man, and had dealt with them as best as he could. And no use beating about the bush; the resolution of those moral dilemmas _had_ been based on at least partially selfish motivations, or not for _him_ so much as the boys. Still, could be worse. He could have given into the urge to leave Sammy on the side of the road somewhere in Texas that year Sam decided _Thriller _was the best song _ever_, so much so that he had to serenade Dean and John with it at every available opportunity. Repeatedly.

Yeah. John could be a goat or something right now. He’s a lucky man. Lucky _horse_.

It’s not so easy to track the progression of time, but on the other hand (hoof) it doesn’t seem to matter so much. All John’s knows is it’s been a while - long enough for him to find his feet and start to like the freedom four hooves and a helluva long stride gives him - when they try to fit a bit and bridle on him.

It’s not the most dignified he’s ever behaved, but John’s always figured any kind of spitting-kicking-biting’s allowed in a fight, as long as it means you get the dignity of victory at the end. It takes them a couple months and more than a few broken bones to concede to his point: there is no way in _hell_ anyone’s gonna saddle him up.

It takes John a little longer after that to maybe concede that they might quite possibly have a point themselves. His accommodation - cushy stables, finest cud and track to stretch his legs on - is downgraded, and he finds himself relegated to smaller pens, scrubbier cud. Maybe while they decide what to do with him now that he’s rendered himself useless to them.

Or, shit, maybe they already _have_ decided. And there’s no goddamn doubt as to whether he’ll like it or not.

There’re mountains in the distance. John’s not quite sure he could identify them like he used to; internal map and logical sense of direction and perception replaced by the smells and sounds of distance, familiarity engraved in different ways. Still, he could make it there - he can run faster than they can, be done with this. And anyway, what’s the worse that could happen? How much shitty karma could possibly have built up by being ornery and eating grass?

It’s night time, the mountains inky black masses in the distance, and John’s located the loose bar in the wooden fence, knocked it out with a few well-placed kicks. He knows his way around the yards, is trotting the guaranteed trail to escape, when abruptly the night air changes.

Creak of insects cease, and his ears flick back rapidly, seeking the cause of it. He snorts as the scent of the air changes, goes from torn earth beneath his hooves and dusty chaff to something rank with an edge of metal, of blood. He snorts again and hears the distant, anxious whickering coming from the stables. Then louder, closer: a shrieked whinny from another of the rejected nags who’d shared pens with him nearby.

There’s a low, savage growl and John’s sense memory is able to kick in with _that_, abrupt as a _click_ in his mind; the smell and sound and threat in the air as familiar as he’d made it when he was walking on two legs, along with it the urge to hunt and kill.

He wheels, stride eating up the distance like it’s nothing and the smell, the sounds getting stronger. The werewolf has a nag cornered up, her bony rump pressing desperately against the fence, making the wood creak as she rears and whinnies, eyes rolling. The wolf is working it to its advantage, and it’s huge; hulking, reeking mass with slavering jaws. Bigger than he’d want to come up against alone _before_, but the animal scare tactics aren’t working on him and he’s cleared the fence at a gallop and strikes before it realises.

A sharp strike to its head to disable it, first; and he sure as shit doesn’t have any silver but decapitation’s always done in a pinch, anyway. By the time John backs off again the werewolf’s body is still and prone, only a flattened, bloodied mess remains above its neck. John skitters back, snorting hard, feeling the werewolf’s blood cooling and congealing in spattered streaks in the hair of his forelegs, his chest. The smell of it is terrible, makes him want to canter around the small pen, want to kick out. The nag is still shrieking, now skittering backward and forward across the far perimeter of the pen. A light in the ranch house comes on, briefly brighter and a distant, tinny slam of a screen door, then anxious human voices. Light chips off the house and bobs towards them; flashlights.

It’s a damn good thing the were’s stayed in its wolf form in death. Otherwise John would be all kinds of glue right now.

*

Apparently it wasn’t the first wolf attack in the area. Nor was it the last. Must be a whole pack of them, John figures, but they’re smart enough to keep the hell away from the ranch when they realise the danger. It takes surprisingly little time for whoever’s running the ranch to realise that, too, and John figures it’s not such a bad gig when they let him loose in the vast grazing territory, smelling on the wind how far out the cattle roam, where the wolf territory’s edging onto it. It’s worth it, then, sticking around. Cows aren’t exactly the most grateful victims he’s ever saved, but the thrill’s always been more for killing the evil sumbitches, he has to admit.

He’s lost track of how many seasons have passed - how much the cattle herd’s expanded with each successful birthing season - when he gets a pair of visitors that are both new and familiar at the same time. He’s grazing when he hears the crunch of their boots on the dry grass; lifts his head and turns ears forward, listening and watching and scenting.

“Heeeere horsey-horsey-horsey!” one of them yells, ducking down without breaking stride to yank a tuft of grass out of the ground.

John snorts, considers whether to go or not. Sure, he’s curious. And sure, he’s always maintained his understanding of the language. Not that he’s ever let on. Mostly because it’s much more goddamn entertaining to be more ornery than obedient. Much more rewarding when the disobedience is more than just dumb animal.

The pair of men pick their way slowing across the expanse of grazing land that separates them, and they’re not any ranch hands that John’s familiar with. Not any other locals either, from the smell of them, and intrigued by the murmur of their voices as they converse, he trots closer.

Close enough to realise. Holy fucking shit. About fucking _time_.

They pull up to a halt when they realise he’s heading toward them, eating up the ground at the eager rhythm of a trot, and they at least have the sense to look alarmed at the sudden mass of unpredictable horseflesh that’s put them in its direct path.

He slows before he gets to them, whickers. Dean beams, shoves out the handful of dried grass. “See,” he says to Sammy, speaking over his shoulder without looking away. “I told you. The way to any animal’s heart is through its stomach.”

John noses past the tough grass and its dusty roots, snuffles at Dean’s hand and the cuff of his jacket. He smells of sweat and gunpowder and barbecue sauce.

“There,” Dean says, half in baby-talk. “You’re not so bad now, are you?”

“Dean,” Sam says. “This is the only goddamn ranch in the county that’s been untouched by some seriously evil pack of werewolves, and the locals reckon it’s all thanks to this horse. This horse is bad_ass_. I’m not sure you should be even getting that close to it…”

Dean waves his hand dismissively. John chews on his collar. Dean smells like that cheap cologne he started buying on the sly at age sixteen, the one that John had never liked. He yanks at Dean’s collar with his teeth. Dean stumbles forward a couple of steps, brings his hands up to rub at John’s muzzle. “Aw,” Dean says. “He’s not gonna hurt _us_.” He rubs his face against John’s nose. “Don’t listen to him, ya big softy.”

“Okay,” Sam says, huffing out a snort himself. “a), it’s a mare. And b), Dean, I think she’s actually _trying to eat you._“

“Whatever,” Dean says. “I recognise a kindred spirit when I see one. And,” He does turn this time, waggling his eyebrows at Sammy. “I have been referred to as a stallion more than once myself.”

John steps forward, brushing Dean to the side and Sam’s hands cup automatically around John’s nose as he snuffles at them, mouths at Sam’s shirt and his hair and ears. There’s a long white scar down the side of Sammy’s face but he smells clean, calm. There’s silver in his hair.

Dean abruptly yanks at his mane. “Dean, I don’t think–” Sam begins, and Dean makes a shushing sound. John skitters a few steps and then Dean’s hauling himself up, slinging a leg across John’s back and propeling himself upward until he’s astride. John snorts, jerks his head up and Dean abruptly tips forward, wraps his arms around John’s neck and attempts to hold on. “Dean,” Sam’s voice is louder, more panicked. “_Seriously_, dude, get the hell off that goddamn horse! Didn’t you hear what those ranch hands said? She’s fucking _wild!_“

“Does she look wild to you?” Dean says back, then straightens up, still yanking at John’s mane, and digs his heels into John’s side. Dean whoops and John’s off. Heading toward those hills.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53569.html


End file.
